


The Detective's Daughter

by martinsbae



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-07-27 12:33:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7618300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/martinsbae/pseuds/martinsbae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam Simmons realises she is the long lost daughter of Sherlock Holmes, she decides to meet him. Will she get on with the great detective, being they are so very alike and so very different? And can she help bring both Sherlock and John together, seeming as they are obviously deeply in love? Over this all, Sherlock deals with the threat to both his lover and daughter, Sebastian Moran.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I will try my hardest to finish this bloody story, as I am well aware that I have a tendency to leave things unfinished. Hope you enjoy! xx

One thing I am absolutely certain of; and that is I am a fucking idiot. I may be a genius on paper, yes, but as of this moment, walking through the crowds of the gloomy people of London, I feel more idiotic then ever before.

  
My mother sent me away with shouts and protests at where I'm going. Let her shout. As if she could stop me. It's visiting hours at 221 Baker Street. I know this because I have more or less memorised each and every word of Doctor Watson's blog. This is the time where the heartbroken clientele of England scurry towards the flat which inhabits the worlds greatest detective and his doctor.

  
I am going to visit Sherlock Holmes on this day, at this time, not because I have a murder to be solved, but because I am Sherlock Holmes' daughter.

  
I laughed when I found out. I laughed and laughed until I cried. I had been brought up without the shadow of a father over my life. No protective force other than my mother, whom I unconditionally love. Although, if there was one thing unforgivable about her, it was her complete refusal to talk about my father.  
Until now, of course. Now I'm eighteen, a legal adult. I have a right to know, she said. Damn bloody right.

  
I'd heard of him by that point, of course. His fame was widespread after his return from the dead. I laughed because I was almost thrilled. He wasn't a passing celebrity whom I might recognise in the papers. He was one of the few celebrities I actually took an interest in. He seemed so very much like myself. Now I know why. I even look like him, we share the same light skin and dark hair.

  
I reach the street where my father resides, a moment of panic seizing my throat and causing me to hesitate. What am I doing? I don't desire a father who'll kiss and cuddle me over the revelation that I'm his offspring, but I cringe away from the thought that he'll completely dismiss me.

  
I can't shake the fear of him disliking me, resenting me even. I ache for the approval of this man, but I sense I'll receive a less than warm welcome.  
Fine. I breathe. If he'll hate me, he'll hate me. I'll carry on with my life. I have always had a tight control on my emotions. This is no different.

  
I approach the door. I've followed Sherlock Holmes' antics ever since learning of my true patronage, so I know this door more than my own at home.  
Breathe, Sam.

  
They would assume I was a client. Any suspicion of my being something different would result in a rejection of Mr Holmes' company. So. Clients. Panicked, distressed, desperate. They'd apply a firm pressure, once, on the doorbell. Anything to get immediate help from within the walls. I glance at it. Yes. It shows obvious signs of overuse.

  
Smirking at my correct observations, I apply firm pressure to the doorbell, hearing it echo inside the house.

  
I feel oddly calm as the door swings open. Inside the narrow hallway, I recognise Doctor Watson. I remember to appear panicked, I'm supposed to be a traumatized client after all.

  
Doctor Watson gives me a reassuring smile, his blue eyes pinching at the sides in obvious sympathy. He's tired, probably a night out. There's bags under his eyes and one button on his shirt has been left undone in a hurry. He woke up later than intended. There's a piece of paper sticking out of his jeans pocket. A receipt. He must have hurried out this morning to get shopping before the clients began filling in. He's the shopper then. A fact that constantly annoys him. From the way the paper is rumpled, he held it in a frustrated fist when he pocketed it. Whoever my father may be, he doesn't get the food in this house.

One fact deduced from my father without looking at him. I fight back the rush of arrogant pleasure. This could be enjoyable.

  
"You're here for Mr Holmes?" he says. I nod. "This way" he swings his arm to let me go first. I stare at the stairs, knowing my father is up there.  
Breathe.

  
"It's OK" Doctor Watson says, placing a hand on my shoulder and squeezing. He's a comforting presence beside me, and I relax knowing he'll be kind, even if Mr Holmes isn't.

  
I climb the stairs slowly, but no time at all passes before I'm opening the door. A pleasant, if somewhat disorganized apartment greets me, light filtering in through the windows. There's a vacant wooden chair facing the dominating presence in the room.

  
He sits with his hands steepled in front of him, his eyes immediately raking over every inch of me. I push down the sense of self-consciousness. This is what he does. His face is impassive as I smile at him.

  
"This is Mr Holmes" says Doctor Watson. "Please take a seat". He gestures to the wooden chair and sits by a wooden desk.

  
"Thank you" I say, clearly and confidently. Now that I'm in the presence of Mr Holmes, I drop the distressed client act. I glance at him. His brow is slightly furrowed, and he drops his hands to the sides of his chair, his gaze seeming to enhance.

  
"In your own time" says Doctor Watson, and I realise I've been staring for a little too long. I clear my throat.

  
"Mr Holmes, I regret to tell you that there is no murder I need solving, I am here on an entirely different matter" I say, focusing intently on his face.

  
He suddenly sighs and rolls his eyes. "Get out" he snaps bitingly. I refuse to let it effect me, but remain stone still, staring at him. Perhaps if I show him not to fuck with me, he'll take me seriously. But his remark agitates me. "Well aren't you a treat?" I say dryly. He narrows his eyes at me. "Please, Mr Holmes. I've traveled a long way".

  
"Debatable" he says with a sigh.

  
"Sherlock" Doctor Watson chides, shooting him a sharp glance. 'Sherlock' shuts up. My lips twitch at Doctor Watson's ability to restrain the rude comments Sherlock obviously wants to spew forth. Sherlock notices my amusement, and narrows his eyes further.

  
"This might not be easy for you to hear" I say, noticing how his eyebrows raise slightly at this. "I want you to understand, that once I've said what I have to say, I require nothing whatsoever from you. You are more than in your right to kick me out if that's what you'd prefer."

  
Sherlock and Doctor Watson both seem interested now, although Sherlock's face is still slightly scrunched with annoyance.  
Crimes or nothing it seems with this one.

  
I take a deep breath, stare intently at him and unflinchingly say "I'm your daughter".

  
For a moment I think he's misheard me. But then his eyes blink in quick succession and his mouth falls open slightly. He stares at me, and I stare back. Trying not to enjoy this too much, I narrow my eyes in challenge of him contradicting me.

  
In the end its Doctor Watson who breaks the silence. "Wha...What?" he says clearing his throat.

  
Sherlock's face is comically gormless, and the doctor's eyebrow are so high they seem to vanish into his hairline.

  
"Look at you, you're both so vacant" I say with a laugh. This statement for some reason causes Sherlock to blink rapidly again and the doctor to take in a deep breath. On second thought, I probably shouldn't be poking fun at a man who's just discovered he has a child.

  
Because no ones speaking, I decide to just continue.

  
"My mother is Rebecca Simmons? I don't expect you to know her, why would you?" I say, unable to keep the slight twinge of resentment out of my voice. Sherlock was the one who knocked her up and left after all. Doctor Watson is staring open mouthed at me, whilst Sherlock frowns so deeply in confusion it must hurt him. "As I understand it, it was during your 'experimental' phase. She told me you were off your head on drugs at the time".

  
At this Sherlock's glance flickers to the doctor guiltily, and then back to me. I carry on. "I don't really care about the details of you both banging to be honest, but after you shot your load of in my mother, you left." I smile innocently.

  
Sherlock surprises me by saying "She never...never said anything".

  
I nod in acknowledgment of this point. "No. She didn't. But that is something you'd have to take up with her. All she told me is that she desperately wanted a baby and took advantage of her pregnancy. My opinion on the matter is irrelevant." I finish.

  
A long silence stretches on, and I cross my legs. After a time, the doctor struggles to form the question "Tea?". It seems so undeniably British that I force back a smile. In times of stress, make tea.

  
I hesitate. "I wouldn't want to stay past my welcome..." I mutter.

  
The doctor blinks. "Clearly she's not inherited your lack of manners, Sherlock".

  
This seems to bring Sherlock out of his trance. "Yes" he says absently in agreement, still staring at me. "She wants PG Tips, one sugar" he remarks.

  
I raise an eyebrow, to which he does the same. John looks between us. "Erm...OK" he says and stumbles off.

  
Then something changes. Sherlock sits up straighter, places his hands in front of him and what can only be described as X-Raying.

  
"Go on then" I say, smiling.

  
He blinks. "Go on what?"

  
I roll my eyes. "Deduce me".

  
His face gives nothing away, but he takes a deep breath. "You're an aspiring writer who values the arts, especially films. A media student, but you write in your spare time. You have a part time job as a waitress, which you're terrible at. You'll be fired on your next shift. You make an effort to stay fit, but you're slightly underweight anyway. Your fashion sense tells me you care a lot about what other people think, and also you have very little money, effects of being a student and a continuous spender. You like one sugar in your tea, and prefer to wear boots rather than flats, even in good weather. This is to make up for your shorter height and your desire for superiority. You're a talented actress, but have no desire to pursue this career path. By the way you addressed us I can deduce you are most likely a kind person who is over polite, a bit like John in that sense. Your speech indicates you have a crude sense of humor and are fond of swear words. You've come, not out of desire for a father, but so you can give shocking news to someone you find intimidating. So, superiority complex looking good." He finishes, a glint in his eye. "Also you had a coffee on the train over and tripped over a pothole outside Euston station". His eyes slide off my face and roam the room, as if he's finished with me.

  
I try to process everything he's said. "Well. Fuck me" I say. His eyes snap back to mine.

  
"Did I get anything wrong?" he asks.

  
"No. Not even the bad stuff. That was...amazing. I knew it." I whisper, awed. "I knew you'd be brilliant."

  
He says nothing. Doctor Watson comes with the tea.

  
"Thank you" I say.

  
"You're welcome" he mutters, and sits back down.

  
Silence. I take a sip of my tea. I vaguely am aware of the doctor making conversation with me, but I'm still staring at my father's eyes.

  
And I deduce him.

  
My eyes rake over his body, and he frowns slightly. The doctor has stopped talking.

  
I smile into my teacup and mutter "How is the fingernail experiment going?"

  
Sherlock takes in a breath in surprise. Doctor Watson asks "What fingernail experiment? For God's sake Sherlock, please don't say they're by the meat in the fridge. You won't tell me about these things but all the clients are welcome to know" he finishes sarcastically.

  
I smile. "He didn't tell me, Doctor Watson" I say. "It's blatantly obvious by his hands. One fingernail has been cut. Enough to get data from, whatever that may be. Most likely one of your nails is also shortened Doctor" I glance at him.

  
Doctor Watson looks at his nails, and I glance at Sherlock, who's mouth curves up at the corners slightly. "Jesus!" shouts the doctor and I jump slightly. "When did you even get the chance to cut my fingernail?"

  
Me and Sherlock say at the same time "Last night." The detective looks at me and I smile. Have I impressed you Sherlock Holmes?

  
I place my tea on the table. "I think I should go. It was a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr Holmes. And yourself Doctor Watson. As I said before, please do not feel the need to give me anything, I've handled eighteen years of life without a father, I can do eighteen more." I shake the doctors hand. "Thank you for looking after my father all these years, Doctor Watson. You make a great couple" I say, smiling.

  
The doctor blushes "No, we're not, er..."

  
Oh. I'd assumed they were romantically attached, but what do I know. "Oh" I say awkwardly.

  
Sherlock stands. I step back slightly by his height.

  
"It was...interesting...to meet you" he says, somewhat stiffly. "I don't know your name" he says suddenly.

  
"Sam" I say. "Samantha Simmons".

  
He nods and shakes my hand, firmly. Our eyes meet. I see curiosity in his eyes there.

  
It wasn't the lovey dovey meeting I could've hoped for, but it could've gone worse. I leave 221, and I can sense the detective's eyes boring into my back on the way out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam finds herself at a crime scene, woohoo.

It's grotty; this hotel. There's a small single bed which looks as if it's never been washed in it's life. It sheets are blotched and ripped. A fridge, an oven, a small bathroom. All I can afford in the glamour of London. I sit down on the bed. I don't know how long I sit. I go over every little detail of today. Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson...everything. I try to see into the mind of Sherlock Holmes but, unlike one's appearence, a person's mind is not so easily deduced. I try to remember his eyes, but they were blank; giving nothing away.

  
My knee is tapping up and down. A sign of agitation. I think I may go mad if I stay any longer in this room. I sigh in frustration and grab my coat. It matches my dark, ripped jeans and dark hair. Sherlock Holmes; hair. It seems he's been a part of me my whole life. I close the door on the grim hotel room, glad to be away from the judgemental walls and oppresive, dirty sheets. I breathe in the smell of the London air. Smoke, imperfect. But perfect enough for me.

  
I walk to god knows where. I stare at my feet. My boots with their laces slightly undone. Tarnished. I watch my them as they step across the streets, thinking. Always thinking. I don't even deduce anyone. I can turn it on and off like a tap. And tonight the waters aren't running.

  
But an hour, maybe two, of my walking, I feel my jacket vibrate. Curious. I pull out my phone, not caring who has bothered to contact me.

  
_James Street, Brixton. Come if convenient. SH_

  
I stare at the text. People tut around me as I block the the street. I ignore them. SH. Sherlock Holmes. I vaguely wonder how he got my number, but I sense the fact that there isn't anything Mr Holmes can't get if he wants it. I feel a smile so broad on my lips, which is increased when the next text pings.

  
_If inconvenient, come anyway. SH_

  
I make a few spelling mistakes in my haste to reply.

  
_On my way. If you're this adept at finding phone numbers, can I have the number of Leonardo DiCaprio?_

  
I laugh to myslef at my own joke, wonderingif he'll reply. Probably not. But as I hail down a cab, another text comes through.

  
_Could be dangerous. I don't know who Leonardo DiCaprio is. I'll ask John. SH_

  
Grinning, I pocket the phone and wait in the taxi. I watch people walk through the darkened London streets and think. Is he inviting me to a crime scene? I thought that was only an activity for him and John. What use could I be? Yes, I am good at deductions. Brilliant, in fact. But Mr Holmes is miles better than me, and John is a doctor. What could I possibly do at a crime scene?

  
In no time at all I arrive, and it's not hard to spot my father. He's surrounded by people in bright jackets. There's a police car, police tape. They are huddled around something on the ground. I take it that's the dead body. Mr Holmes walks in a circle around it, sometimes raising his hands while speaking, or looking to John, who stands nearby with his hands behind his back.

  
I pay and walk out. As I get closer, I notice the body of a man on the ground, with marks across his neck. Obvious what happened. Sherlock's head snaps up to me, and he stands.

  
"Sam, perhaps you can shed some light on this. Whatever you say will be much smarter than Anderson's observations I promise you" he says, gesturing to the body.

  
John turns around and his eyes widen, then his head snaps back to Sherlock. "Sherlock, you invited Sam to a crime scene?! She's a young girl, for god's sake!" he says angrily. Sherlock looks intently at John and sighs, looking guilty.

  
I walk past the two of them and stare down at the dead man. "I'm not afraid of a dead body, Doctor Watson" I say clearly, observing the man. Sherlock makes a I-told-you-so sound in his throat. The man is shorter than average and wears a simple T-Shirt and jeans. I crouch down to look at his hands, angling my head and squinting my eyes. The hard ground hurts my knees that poke out from my ripped jeans. I stand and walk slowly around the body. I deduce as much as I can, observing every detail. I am strongly aware of everyone's eyes on me, especially my fathers. Why am I so eager to earn his respect?

  
"Hey!" a woman shouts sharply. I flinch at the harsh tone and turn. An attractive, dark skinned woman with tight curly hair marches towards me, looking furious. "Who the hell are you?" she asks.

  
I straighten, my chin raising at the conflict. She stares at Sherlock, who looks annoyed with his eyebrows drawn deeply together. The woman shouts behind her "Sir!" she calls.

  
A grey haired man in a long coat walks over from where he was making notes near the police van. He surveys me, sighs deeply, shuts his eyes and runs a palm over his head. "Sherlock" he sighs, "can you stop inviting people to crime scenes please, this is not an activity for the general public" he snaps. He looks at me. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave, Miss" he says. I feel my cheeks warm with embarrassment.

"Don't be absurd. She's staying" Sherlock says. John observes the conversation with a weary eye.

  
I fall back on my innate Englishness, and resort to politeness. "No, it's OK, I'll leave" I say, and make to move, but Sherlock holds up a hand to stop me, staring down the man.

  
"Why on Earth wouldn't you let my daughter in at this crime scene Lestrade, but you still insist on having Anderson blundering about?" he says. I inhale sharply. 'My daughter'. He called me his daughter. He has recognized me. I try to breathe past the meaning in his statement.

  
The man, Lestrade, looks so shocked he seems to be in pain. His mouth hangs open and he stares from Sherlock to me and back again, and then finally to John. He clears his throat, but no words come out.

  
"It's true" says John, looking at me in slight wonder.

  
"But...Your...Your _daughter_? You have a fucking _daughter_?" Lestrade says in awe.

  
Sherlock rolls his eyes as if the world is too stupid to bear. "Yes. She's my daughter" he says.

  
There's silence, whilst everyone stares at me in shock. I clear my throat and say dryly "Hi there" and nod. Lestrade shakes his head and walks forward, offering his hand. His mouth is still hanging open. I grasp my hand with his.

  
"If you keep that expression up any longer, it'll stick" I say, amused. Lestrade looks blankly at me. I wink. There's a sound of laughter from John.

  
"Jesus Christ" Lestrade mutters.

  
"Not quite" I say and release his hand. He looks utterly gobsmacked. My eyes flicker to Sherlock, but he's turned sideways away from me. But I can still make out his raised cheek, as if he's smiling. Then he turns and looks at me.

  
I decide to fill the silence. I speak rapidly. "I'm no detective but I have a few points to make about this particular stiff. I would ask your permission but from the looks of things you're still having trouble vocalizing vowels. So I'll just continue". The woman's eyebrows are raised, and Sherlock tracks my movements with intelligent eyes. I walk by the man's head. "We can see from his hands that he's a writer. There's ink smudged on his left hand. This also reveals the fact that he is dominantly left handed. His nails are well groomed. He spends all day looking down at his hands as he types, so he makes an effort with them. There's no ring on his finger, so unmarried. Difficult to say if he's in a relationship but I would argue not. His choice of clothes hints that he doesn't go out often, so wears old jeans. You can see how faded they are. There's tears in his shirt" I gesture to the dead man. "He struggled, but not well. His attacker was taller than him, and they fought standing upright, going from the angles of the rips. The attacker must have attacked his shins to get him to fall. You can say a layer of mud by his right knee. Once the stiff was on the ground, the attacker then sat atop him and strangled him. So he was facing him at the time. To watch someone die so plainly in front of you means emotion or strong will was behind it. The attacker relished and enjoyed this murder". I get louder as I speak, knowing I'm right. I also realize I'm trying to impress my father. "The motivation is uncertain at this point, but perhaps it was fueled by drink or drugs" I finish, enunciating the last word.

  
Silence. Then Sherlock walks towards me and I glance at him. He smiles at me. So wide and a surge of happiness spreads through me. This is the first time he's shown favor towards me. Maybe he likes me after all.

  
"God, now there's two freaks" says a short, ugly man.

I drop my eyes, ashamed. Before I can react, Sherlock strides over to the man, who seems to shrink into himself. My father bends down to whisper something in the man's ear, who's face pales and he gulps. I hear John sigh. The man nods and Sherlock walks back to us, looking furious. I raise my eyebrow at him.

  
"Anderson apologizes for that statement, don't you Anderson?" says Sherlock pleasantly. I snap my head to Anderson, who nods, looking terrified.

  
"That's nice of him" I say back.

  
"You were correct in your observations, Sam. Apart from one detail. Here" he says and gestures for me to follow him. He thin begins to make his own deductions, and how he made them. I try not to smile to much, but fail. Sherlock's smiles come more frequent, especially when John walks over to inspect the mans neck. I see Sherlock stare at John's back with a fond look on his face, but it is gone quickly and I think I may have imagined it.

  
And unbelievably, I find myself being taught by Sherlock Holmes. I didn't realize the hole in my heart was where a father should be. Not just any father though. The detective who talks rapidly at me now seems to me the father I've wanted all along.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft!

The crime scene doesn't last too long. In fact, when Sherlock is speaking time seems to go by quickly. It's amazing watching him, he can attract the attention of anyone in the vicinity, whether they want to listen or not. Sherlock continues to make more and more deductions, ones that I had no hope of seeing in the slightest. I find my look of awe mirrored in Doctor's Watson's kind face as he stares at Sherlock, never missing a word. At one point, Sherlock asks for the good doctor's opinion and he's straight down by the body before Sherlock has even finished asking.

 

I stand on my own, watching them, getting colder and feeling more awkward by the second. I can hardly add anything Sherlock doesn't already know and it doesn't help that many of the staff keep glancing curiously at me, some subtle and some not so subtle. After a time, Sherlock decides to head to 'Barts. Morgue', whatever that is. He's so captivated by his thoughts that it's easy for me to slip away. I turn a few corners until the scene is out of my sight and pick up my pace, wanting to escape the crowd for reasons I can't pinpoint.

 

I enter a busy street, feeling my spirits perk up at the London atmosphere, something I've always loved. I grab some chips from a stall and chew happily on the food, not noticing the black car that trails after me. It's only when I turn into a quieter street that I notice it. It stops and the door swings open and I pause with a chip half way to my mouth. A huge man steps out, dressed in a smart suit, and opens the door for me. Well shit.

 

I assess my options. I can run, but the end of the street gets quieter as it goes and I don't want to isolate myself even more. I could fight the guy, and then I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. I'll probably get one kick in and then be knocked out cold. I could try flirting, something that's not beneath me. But, it occurs to me that this guy is fully trained, I doubt I'd have any luck there. So that leaves the only option; to get in.

 

Sighing in annoyance and trying to suppress the tendrils of fear working their way of my back, I climb into the back seat, where the door slams beside me. Sitting opposite me is a posh looking man in a grey suit with an umbrella beside him. He looks down his long nose, assessing me. I sigh in annoyance. Will I be X-Rayed any more this day?!

 

“Miss Simmons” the man says in his posh voice. I feel another flicker of fear as I realise he knows my name. “I apologise for making you unsettled but I merely wanted to escort you back to your home”.

 

“You're awfully polite for a kidnapper” I say, with more bravery than I'm currently feeling. His polite smile vanishes and he rolls his eyes.

 

“Is it true that you are the daughter of Sherlock Holmes?” he says. Getting to the point then, I can appreciate that.

 

“Yes” I say simply.

 

He surveys me. “We will of course run tests to find the truth of your words”.

 

“I wouldn't bother. Mr Holmes has already done that, I could tell” I reply. It's something I noticed earlier. God knows how he managed to test me already.

 

“Has he now?” he says this like he already knew the answer and is trying to test my responses.

 

I rake my eyes once again over him, but find my deductions to be lacklustre due to my fear of him. I can't work much out, only that he had a bacon sandwich and a banofee pie cake slice for lunch.

 

“I will of course be in contact with your mother and give her her punishment for keeping my brother in the dark on this” he says with an air of finality.

 

Panic shoots through me, dismissing the revelation that this man is my uncle.

 

“Don't you fucking dare do anything to my mother” I say viscously, anger replacing my fear. My uncle's eyebrows merely rise at this, a hint of a smile on his face. It makes me want to punch him. In fact I will-

 

“We're here” he says, halting my actions. The door swings open, revealing my little hotel.

 

I make no move. “You will not hurt my mother” I say.

 

“Of course I won't harm your mother, Miss Simmons. I'm merely going to deny her certain privileges for a while to teach her that it is never good to lie. You will not return to her house. I will pay for you to remain in London, and have your things brought to you. There will be no contact with your mother until she has learned your lesson. Do you understand?”

 

My mouth opens wordlessly in shock. “Who do you think you are?” I stutter.

 

“Believe me, it's for a good reason” he says, almost to himself.

 

Without anything else to say, I get out of the vehicle, watching it drive away and then staring at the road for a good few minutes after. A fierce anger takes hold of me. I'm usually good at keeping a firm hold on my emotions, but now a fury races through me and I storm down many roads towards Baker Street.

 

I knock fiercely on the door, and am greeted by an old lady. Shit. Sherlock and John would still be at Saint Barts. She smiles warmly.

 

“You must be Sam. Come in, dear.” she says, ushering me in to the warmth. My brow furrows in confusion, halting my anger briefly. “Oh don't worry, Mycroft told me you'd most likely arrive here in a blinding rage and told me to let you in immediately to wait for your father. Go on up” she says. Mycroft must be the psycho.

 

I slowly walk upstairs, muttering a quiet 'thank you' to her. The room is dark and I sit in the chair my father was sitting in earlier. The anger slowly fades away but I know as soon as I see Sherlock it'll come raging back. The minutes tick by into hours, and my head begins to droop. Exhausted and oddly comforted by the smells in the flat, I drop into sleep.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't posted in ages, I did tell you I'm awful at leaving things unfinished. To make it up to you, here's some johnlock angst xx

“Maybe Anderson scared off” I sigh into my palm, which I was currently falling asleep on. Sherlock is bent over a microscope, but fidgets slightly, something I know all too well to be a sign of agitation. He's concerned about Sam, although he doesn't say it. I would think he's more confused than anything else. To find out you suddenly have an adult daughter is enough to make a grown man tremble. “She's fine Sherlock, she's an adult” I say gently.

 

His eyes snap up to mine. “I'm not worried'” he snaps.

 

“No, of course you're not” I mutter to myself. I walk over to where he is working. His shoulders tense as I cross my arms and lean on the desk. That magnificent jawline twitches in agitation. “So...how are you feeling” I say tentatively.

 

He doesn't look up. “I'm perfectly fine John, why wouldn't I be?”

 

“Because you've just found out you're a dad, maybe?” I say. Silence. “Look it's okay, Sherlock, I'd be freaked out too”.

 

He lifts his head to stare at me. “You are under the delusion that I _care_ for Sam” he says, his nose scrunching up in displeasure at saying the word.

 

“I know you don't, you've only met her today” I reply, soothingly.

 

“Caring is not an advantage, John” he says scathingly.

 

Annoyance shoots through me. “Right” I say shortly. “So you jumped off a building for me just for the fun of it then, yeah?” I say, immediately regretting it. Even now, the pain of it still haunts me. Sherlock makes to sneer a reply, but we are interrupted by Lestrade barging in.

 

“We know where he is.” he says, out of breath.

 

Me and Sherlock glance briefly at each other, and then jump up and follow Lestrade out the door.

 

After a stony silence in the police car, we arrive at bridge. It's pitch black now, save for the streelights. Lestrade makes a motion silently, which I understand from my army days. We quietly make our way below the bridge, where I can now make out a figure of a man standing beneath.

 

“Mr Roberts, place your hands above your head, you're under arrest” Lestrade barks, raising a gun. The man's head snaps up and he lunges away. “Shit” mutters Lestrade.

 

Sherlock begins to sprint and I follow, feeling the rush of cold air and adrenaline in my lungs. This is where I'm supposed to be, by his side. We run through alleyways in nearby buildings, the criminal more than a little agile. I'm shorter and slower than Sherlock, so he manages to catch up to the criminal a good deal ahead of me. Damn him. Sherlock makes to lunge on the stocky man, but a fist hits him in the face first and he bends over double, clutching his nose. The large man kicks him in the stomach, making him cough.

 

“Don't you fucking dare” I growl and throw my weight on the man, shoving him into the wall by his throat. He gasps for air, clawing at my hands, leaving scratches. I knee him in the groin for good measure, releasing my protective fury out on the idiot. He goes down, and I climb onto his back, twisting his hands behind him. “Sherlock. Handcuffs.”

 

Sherlock throws them to me, and I quickly latch them onto the struggling man, securing him. The police lights begin to arrive. I stand up and watch Sherlock wipe the blood from his face, laughing. It's infectious and I laugh too, tears streaming down my face. Sherlock looks at me with a wild glint in his eyes, and begins to stride towards me.

 

“John-”he begins.

 

“OI!!!” a booming voice shouts, cutting off whatever Sherlock was going to say. Lestrade runs between us and looks at the man on the floor.

 

“You're welcome” I say sweetly, earning a snort from Sherlock.

 

We watch as the man is hurled into the car, creatively swearing at us. We promise to give the statements tomorrow, Sherlock a little reluctantly.

 

“Come on, I want to look at your nose when we get home” I say, hailing a taxi.

 

“It's fine John” he says as we drive. He looks at me briefly, then looks out of the window.

 

“What?” I say, surveying his lean profile.  
  
“That was...good” he says simply. I nod, understanding that that is Sherlock language for 'thank you'.

 

We travel in a comfortable silence through London, and I feel drowsy after the long day. My mind wanders back to Sam and how eerily similar she was to Sherlock, but also so very different. A pretty girl with a bold attitude, she was certainly striking. However, I wasn't expecting her kindness, a trait people never fail to undervalue, but it was pleasant all the same. I wonder what Sherlock makes of her, but I doubt he even knows where to begin. We arrive at Baker Street, and we walk slowly into the flat.

 

“Fuck!” I shout, clutching my chest in surprise at the girl sleeping on the chair. Sherlock just stands and stares at her.

 

The girl blearily blinks her eyes open at the sound, and she tenses when she sees us. Her hair is messy on one side where her hand has been.

 

“Sorry” I say, not really sure why I'm whispering now that she's awake anyway.

 

“Doctor Watson” she says sleepily.

 

“Please, call me John”. She smiles at that.

 

“Mycroft” Sherlock suddenly states, and me and Sam both turn to watch him.

 

“Yes” Sam says, an angry tone to her voice. This isn't the first time I've no idea what is going on, but it's still annoying.

 

Sherlock watches her unblinkingly. “It has nothing to do with me. No, I can't change it. And yes, you can stay in 221B until he's over his sulk” he says, clearly knowing everything she was about to ask. After a beat, Sam deflates, and nods. “MRS. HUDSON!” he shouts, making both me and Sam jump.

 

Mrs Hudson pops her head through the door. “Yes, dears?” she asks.

 

“Mrs Hudson, please can you show Sam to 221C?” he says. Mrs Hudson frowns, as do I. 221C is covered in mould, is freezing, and has one bed with holes in the mattress.

 

“Sherlock, she can't stay in there, she can stay in my room” I say. Sherlock makes a gesture with his hand which tells he is very uninteresting in the topic and goes towards the kitchen, gently touching his experiments as if petting a pet.

 

Sam pipes up. “No, please, I can't just kick you out of your room”

 

“It's no bother, I promise” I say, and it's not, because I feel fond and strangely protective over this girl, who is such a likeness of her father it's impossible for me not to care for her. I can tell she's upset over something, and hope Sherlock will fill me in later.

 

I show her up, collecting my pyjamas and tidying slightly.

 

“Thank you, John” she says sadly.

 

I close the door behind her and make my way over to Sherlock, gathering my first aid kit. “You want to tell me what that was about?” I mutter, sitting Sherlock down despite his pouts.

 

“Mycroft being an interfering git again. He's stopped her from seeing or living with her mother” he says.

 

Shit. I've always known Mycroft was a dick but I didn't realise he'd go as far as to break the heart of a young girl. I shake my head at his arrogance.

 

“Tilt” I order, gently pulling Sherlock's chin towards me. I start cleaning away the blood, trying not to notice Sherlock's piercing gaze.

 

“John” he says quietly, and his deep baritone seems to hit me in the chest. I carry on with what I'm doing. “I'm sorry about saying caring not being an advantage”.

 

Wow. The words 'I'm sorry' just came from Sherlock. I breathe in deeply.

 

“But you're right, it isn't an advantage” I whisper.

 

“No” he agrees, “but it is unavoidable”. I've stopped cleaning him and am just holding onto his chin, staring into his eyes which I can never work out are blue or green. My breathing picks up at the thick air between us, and my eyes flicker to those perfect bow shaped licks without my mind authorising it.

 

I clear my throat, backing away slightly. “You need a stitch” I say gruffly, trying to ignore the hint of a smirk on Sherlock's face and his admittance that he cares for me. I knew this already, despite what he says, the bloody man jumped off a building for me, but to hear it said out loud is something altogether new.

 

I stitch him up expertly, focusing on my hands. I finish, and go to the bathroom, taking deep breaths and changing into my pyjamas. I gather the extra bedsheets and pillow from the cupboard and place them on the sofa, settling down.

 

“What are you doing?” Sherlock accuses.

 

I sigh. “Sleeping. Piss off.” I say without bite.

 

“Why are you sleeping there?” he asks, confused.

 

“Because, Sherlock, your daughter who we've only just met today is in my room and I don't want to make her day even more difficult by jumping into bed with her” I say, amused.

 

“But my bed is empty” he says, genuinely stumped.

 

I push down the images that come to mind of me and Sherlock in bed together, certainly not sleeping.

 

“Sherlock, I'm not sleeping with you” I say, wincing at the connotations of that.

 

“But you want to” he says,

  
I sit bolt upright. “What?! No I don't” I say, panicked.

 

“You do. You've been aching for a good sleep all day and you're shoulders bothering you, you want a bed” he replies.

 

I breathe a sigh of intense relief. He wasn't asking what I think he was asking. “Oh. Okay. Still, no”

 

“I won't be sleeping anyway tonight” he announces, returning to the kitchen.

 

After a time my shoulder does begin to hurt, and with a lot of muttering, I give up and make my way into his bed. It smells comforting and vaguely of coconut, and I fall easily into a deep sleep.

 

During the night, I'm woken by my own scream and the sight of Sherlock's frantic face above me. It was the rooftop dream again, always the worst one. Halfway through the dream Moriarty's face twisted grotesquely into Sam's face, which laughed and claimed she was Moriarty's daughter, not Sherlock's. I breathe until I calm, blinking up at Sherlock.

 

“Shit. I'm sorry” I say, lying back down.

 

“It's okay” he whispers making to leave. The sight of his back compulsively makes me want him closer.

 

“Sherlock. Can you...please...stay?” I ask nervously.

 

A very long pause occurs and I take his answer as a 'no' until he nods and gets in beside me. He's so close, I can feel his breath on the back of my neck. My heart rate picks up and I will it to be calm. But there is no way that happens as I feel the slightest hint of lips on my hair.

“Sleep” he says, and I could never refuse that voice, so I sleep.

 

 


End file.
